A Priori: From What Comes Before
by Samirah the Entertainer
Summary: As the story winds on...a few paths will connect. Chaos no not the lovable cat from the series can not be far behind. New chap. to come soon.
1. Disclaimer

(First off let me say that this fic is not solely based on one character, I'm trying to do this from an omniscient point of view for all the lead characters; both protagonist and antagonist. Like I said, trying. I'm not very good at summaries and the story is apt to change at any time.)

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the original Aladdin characters and you know of whom I speak of. Do not sue me because I don't have any money to speak of and I doubt you'd want to throw me out on the streets…at least I would hope not.

Rating: PG-13 for now, it might become R later on for language and implied sexuality

Summary:

While Agrabah's Sultan entertains envoys from other countries to discuss trade and decrees, turmoil is brewing in the Palace and on the streets of Agrabah. A plan to over throw the Sultan, established by Jafar leads to chaos, death, heartache, and drama…who knew a simple trip to Agrabah would be this exciting. I do not own the main characters: Mozenrath, Aladdin, Jasmine, Jafar, Abu, Iago, the Sultan, Destane, etc. If you haven't heard of them that proably means that I own them.Y

Warnings: Slight mention of rape, homosexuality, and (half-baked) suicide attempts. I promise not as bad as it seems.

"My life has a superb cast but I can't figure out the plot"

Ashleigh Brilliant


	2. Chapter 1

"It is better to be feared than loved, if you cannot be both."

Nicollo Machiavelli (1469-1527), "The Prince"

Chp.1   
The Land of the Black Sands 

Mozenrath for one had never truly been a homebody, so when Destane had commanded him to pack lightly for a visit he frequently took to catch up on one of his old apprentice's in Agrabah, Mozenrath nearly jumped for joy. Well, nowhere close to nearly; he'd never been one for _expressing_ his emotions in melodramatic form, none the less jump for joy, but the thought did allow his mind some freedom to wander from where it rested inside the cold Citadel walls.

It had been years since Mozenrath had actually been outside the Citadel, and quite frankly, anything that wasn't the Citadel would do him fine; except for the halls of his mother in Morbia. He'd rather not, and actually resented the idea, of trying to force mother and son relations between Mirage and himself. That over-grown tabby he called mother was the exact reason why he was in here with the malevolent-prone, psychotic Destane in the first place.

'Not now…' 

Why did he have to think about that sick bastard now? Just the essence of that man (that is if he was one) sent Mozenrath's nerves on edge. He hated Destane with a passion; it was just the worst coincidence that he'd been stuck to this man as a student to schoolmaster.

Mozenrath ran his tongue over his dry lips, anxiety and tension building up inside him. He had to stop doing this too himself. Reminding his self about what that sick _creature_ did to him, who cared about what he did to the possible others.

'_Come on Mozenrath. Stop thinking about him. Preperation is needed here, not procrastination.'_

Mozenrath raised himself from his reclining area in one of the libraries. Before Destane had graced him with his presence and _bravura_ news, he'd been sitting in his lazy chair sipping on some drink he'd received during the day from some menial servant, studying some of the previous history of the Citadel (how else was he to get a head, he had to know everything that bastard knew and more so). Being ever so restless, and detesting the feeling he got since Destane visited the room, he set off for his own private quarters; his cape flowing behind him, regardless of the lack of wind.

_Five years._

He remembered when he'd first come to the Land of the Black Sand. Well actually, Lands of the Black Sand. Destane had succeeded in destroying, mutilating, and chasing out most of the dwellers in the land. The few that did remain to serve him were only a small portion and even then the population had to be fewer than 30 people, not counting the Mamluks that patrolled the wasteland.

Mozenrath tucked a strand of hair behind an ear. He hated to be, or be seen, unkempt. It was this façade that he hid his true self behind; a lovely blend of arrogance and pride touched with a dash of sarcasm and malice. Not that there was anyone to really see or hear him for what he was, and he'd be damned if he'd strike the nerve to lament his life and thoughts to anyone that lived under the Citadel or even outside it. It was a reassuring way for Mozenrath to feel secure and stable.

Keep it to yourself and no one can touch you.

Or at least, not in that way. Anyway that wasn't physical, that is.

Five years. Five fucking long, aggravating years. He was sixteen when he'd come to Destane's citadel and _eerily _it had started to grow on him. Making itself a replacement home for the one he lacked.

Mozenrath made his way down the torch lit corridors, passing a slave or two, towards his chambers. That were by chance adjacent to where Destane's laid.

For five years, he'd watched and felt the consequences of Destane's sick twisted mind. As _punishment_ Destane would slip inside his room and…

'_Stop thinking. Your only doing what he wants you to do. He wants you to remember so that he can keep you underneath him. Just concentrate on the now.'_

Mozenrath turned another corner.

It had only taken him a couple of months to figure Destane out. Destane didn't like to be questioned, he only took in the best (and he, Mozenrath was the best), anything Destane wanted Destane got (whether with or without your consent, moral or immoral) and he only indulged someone outside himself when he was pleased or in high spirits. And that was a rare chance moment in the lives of those who dwelt there. Destane was beyond narcisstic and pessimistic, and having a good mood was almost unbearable for him to imagine.

Not that anyone, especially Mozenrath, didn't take advantage of those few moments; it just wasn't always in the best to try Destane's patience.

Mozenrath held back a sour smile. Oh yes, he remembered the last time he'd tried Destane's patience. It earned him a severe punishment that he almost short-lived. It was kind of funny thinking back on the picture Destane's face painted when Mozenrath plainly stated to Destane that he was the next prodigy and that Destane was fucking lucky to be in his presence.

He sure was an overly cocky, spoiled brat back then; if he could call it that. He always had been an unbearable child for his _mother_ and Destane. She wasted no time in sending him to Destane, and didn't hesitate to visit, figuring everything was well at hand and taken care of.

On his first night in the citadel, being the crowned prince and heir of Morbia, he'd refused the living quarters that Destane had appointed him. He was exceptionally unreasonable and Mirage had finally wagered a deal between Destane and herself. Since Mozenrath thought he deserved a well-placed room, he'd get one (and inevitable that'd be the worst room in the place, unbeknownst to Mirage and at first Mozenrath of course).

During that first few night stays it became painstakingly obvious what Mirage had intended for him to learn there. Obedience and submission.

Mozenrath chuckled mordantly at the thought of listening to Mirage fuss and fume over him and his _reckless_ behavior. _Reckless_. The word fit him perfectly, but to him not in it's essential meaning, but in it's more boundless terminology.

Reckless to Mozenrath was almost as plausible as thinking Destane was a holy man. Mozenrath deemed himself to be a living-breathing genius of a sort. He wasn't reckless in behavior or in any procedure, but his frequent mood swings caused him to gain that title around Morbia and around the Citadel.

Clearing another winding hallway Mozenrath turned into his heavily furnished bedroom. Being a prince and a powerful sorcerer in the making, Mozenrath was privileged to have all the advanced tinkerings, objects, and riches to grace his humble abode. Foreign things decked the walls, and it'd taken Mozenrath no time to find it's hidden talents and secrets. He'd spent most of his times, outside of Destane's lessons, studying every magical art, entity, politic, war, kingdom, and anything else he considered to aid him in his future conquests.

Mozenrath sprawled languorously onto on his bed. His eyes opened slowly in irritation realizing that he needed to check on his newfound wonder.

It had just been a couple of days ago, Destane had taught Mozenrath how to use his magic to conjure up mythical creatures from the mysteries of space and time. It had taken him a while to sustain enough magic through his newfound gauntlet to keep the creatures alive, and they'd only last for a few moments before disappearing to wherever they'd come from. He'd tried to give up out of frustration but the ever-persistent Destane wouldn't have his student not being able to do the simplest form of conjuring. So Mozenrath had been locked away in one of the larger libraries inside the Citadel.

Destane made sure he wasn't fed at all and the servants were forbidden (on consequence of prolonged death) to enter there.

The pain was almost unbearable, but Mozenrath wouldn't have Destane treating him like some hellish child that needed to be taught a lesson by locking them in a room. It was basically time-out and Mozenrath could not accept and would not tolerate that degradation from him.

So the hours inside of the library toiled at a slow rate. Hour after hour Mozenrath spent scrolling through new ways to preserve life. Any fool could destroy life, but the creation of life was an art that Mozenrath intended to learn. Not to mention, use to his advantage. Necromancy wasn't easily obtained, only the scant few could conquer its intricacy.

Soon enough Mozenrath had concurred that hurtle and Destane had rewarded him to a fashion. He'd _allowed_ Mozenrath to keep his creature. Mozenrath had conjured an apparition's seed from a distant world. Who cared what world at the time; Mozenrath reluctantly found pride in knowing that he'd pleased Destane in some other way that wasn't physically degrading. Something that confused Mozenrath to know end, but hell if he was to try to find out.

It was a far more tedious task in taking care of a small seed than Mozenrath had imagined. It painstakingly took up most of his lazy time, which Mozenrath enjoyed to no end (in-between studying, planning, and practicing).

He'd decided on calling the creature Xerxes after the late tyrant ruler of Persia. It just seemed to fit for him at the time, and Mozenrath decided not to question it.

"Well Xerxes, looks like your Master gets a free ride to Agrabah. It'll be nice to size up the kingdom…I've only heard _great_ things about it." Mozenrath sat down beside his discovery; rubbing his gloved finger over the surface, leaving the faintest trail of magic.

"Destane wants to visit his former apprentice, and I…once again…get the chance to _prove_ myself worthy of his attentions. Although he failed to mention that this guy, Jafar, works for that brainless nit of a Sultan as an advisor. This should institute itself as being interesting if not comically sad in the least."

Mozenrath smirked and idly tapped on his chin.

"What to pack…"

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Review Please! I'd love any input whether negative or positive. Please no flames, I really don't know if I can handle them in the proper way. 


	3. Chapter 2

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First off, this chapter is incredible wordy and long...read at your own risk :-) 

"Beautiful discourse is rarer than emerald, yet it can be found among the servant girls at the grindstones"

Ptah-Hotep

Chp.2

The Streets of Agrabah, 16 years ago 

It was her terrible cough and forlorn thoughts that kept her up most during the night. Wiping away the small traces of blood from her mouth, she made her way over to her makeshift bed.

It was over for her. She had nothing left; she had failed her children, and her parents. She failed herself. No more tears were needed now, not ever.

She was no mother. She couldn't even provide a decent meal for her children, let alone herself. Agrabah had proven itself a task far mightier than herself; and raising two children in the heat wave was excruciating.

All she could think of was her smiling children's faces.

Her beautiful six-year-old daughter, Adara and her honey smile. She would be lovely when she was older. Striking brown eyes and a head full of curly black hair she'd inherited from her mother. She was the spitting image of her father, with a dark tan and a full little nose. She was her mother's little angel. Her little guardian.

Her little Adara.

And her youngest. Only a few months old, wide eyed and dimpled. Her little baby boy.

She hadn't the heart to give him a name at first; she figured she wouldn't grow attached. He was so small and weak, she was afraid he'd die during the night or while she was away at work. But every night she'd come home and see Adara playing with her baby brother.

Throughout all the excruciating pain she'd suffered with his birth, it was worth it. She'd barely survived it and she'd been so weak during the pregnancy. But he was such a small beautiful blessing. The mid-wife had told her not to bond herself too much with him. It was so unlikely for him to live within those walls of malnutrition and poverty.

The mid-wife, an older women and barren of children, was scornful that some lousy street mouse was able to have children, while she remained without any children for her husband. She would always give plenty of reasons why the child shouldn't make it when she visited her, during her daily check ups on the mother.

'_He's too tiny. With all that sickness goin around he'll pick something up for sure. Might as well chuck'em in the streets, before he'll bring you and your daughter in a nasty disease.'_

' _Don't worry so, you still have your little prize, Adara. Boys are so rarely born in Agrabah nowadays.'_

'_The Queen of Agrabah has lost many of her children. All her children die within months of each other. If she can't keep one, you know you won't. Wasn't as if yours'd live long, didn't I tell ya.'_

She had tried not to take the mid-wife's words to heart but, he was so light in her hands. The guilt ate at her. She was the reason that he was like this; because, she didn't eat and couldn't take care of him or Adara. So premature, as if the slightest touch would break his fragile body. It was Adara who had forever changed the way she viewed him. Adara made sure her sick mommy and baby brother were under constant care.

Adara never treated him like he was sickly. She'd play with him and babble to him in baby talk of little things. She could remember waking up one morning, listening to Adara sing and dance merrily around the room with a few torn scarves, performing a show for the baby. His eyes and grin he'd graciously inherited from her, wide as ever; making little noises of approval and pleasure. She could remember clearly Adara saying:

'_I think he'll live mommy.'_

The words had shocked her so much. Adara knew what her mother was thinking and Adara's faith in her baby brother was just the thing her mother needed. The faith she was so in need of now, that beautiful height of faith. She smiled weakly; a great height of faith and blessings from allah would be all they needed, she and Adara, in their little Aladdin.

Her son was so much stronger than she gave him credit. It was to bad she'd never see him grow older.

She shivered, drawing her covers closer to her; careful not to pull too much from the tow forms slumbering beside her. She felt so numb, and empty. Looking over her side at her resting children, she traced her fingers gentle over her baby boy's face. He was so angelic when he was asleep, but so restless while awake. Just like his father.

Aladdin had his father's spirit, but looked so much like herself as a babe that it always left her in awe. Such preciousness she carried with her. Her beautiful baby boy.

She decided he'd make a fine gentleman when he was older. A much better man or maybe even husband and brother than his vacant parent.

She tossed in her bed being just as careful as before not to wake the sleeping forms beside her, and stared out of the large gaping hole in the hovel as the sky gave way to little bursts of raindrops. The first sign that Agrabah's latest drought was coming to an end. Not that it mattered to her. All that mattered now was that she built up her strength for her journey ahead. Her last journey, she supposed.

She remembered the physician telling her that she'd _acquired_ a new disease that had been spreading over the deserts. She'd been stubborn, to say the least (being agitated at the fact that was all he could diagnose her for), but paid the man for his time. That'd been almost a year ago, just a couple of month's before she'd bore her baby boy.

'_When we had money.'_

She hadn't had the money to visit again in months, figuring the point was useless unless a cure was found. She'd decided to work nights in the thieves' quarter as an exotic dancer. A stripper of a sort. It brought money and paid the taxes, but it was little to none for food. A life of poverty hit her hard, but not as hard as it hit her children.

"_If only I'd been wise and listened to my parents."_

Her thoughts turned bitter, and it felt like her stomach was about to heave. She could practically taste that bittersweet bile in her throat.

She'd given up her dowries for some blind fling with an Arabian horse thief. Sure, it had been fun at first and she was convinced at the time it was love, but could she honestly say that now over those long years. Was all that worth losing that solid base she could fall on?

Her parents had quickly disowned her and denied her existence the last time she tried to reclaim her birthrights. She was a classless whore, and a harlot to them. They wanted nothing to do with her; not even her own elder sisters or brothers.

She could hear her father and mother's voices over and over again. Replaying in her mind.

'_You are no daughter of mine. As soon as you lied underneath that filth you were no longer a part of this family.'_

'_You've shamed are family…tainted our line.'_

'…_Just get out. Just get the fuck out before I send for the authorities.'_

They left her not the slightest bit of pity. The looks of pride, adoration, and love was quickly replaced in the time it had taken her to repeat her _betrothed's _name.

She brought a single clammy had to her left cheek, where a small scar rested. It was somewhat visible, faded through time and tentative care; running along her face, over her eyebrow, eye, and little of her nose. It wasn't painful anymore, or demeaning to her beauty (not that she could tell or care), but it served as a painful reminder of what her mother had last given her.

She could still hear and remember the pain of her mother's slap across her face. It had shocked her, more so than it'd hurt. The pain that throbbed in her mother's eyes was unbearable and the angry stoicism of her father's face heartbreaking.

Her mother hadn't intentionally meant to scar her daughter (it had been the nails that had raked across her face), but she did mean for the slap to hurt. It didn't hurt her more that the rejection, but its constant reminder, whenever she looked at the mirror, served its purpose. She wasn't wanted anymore. She no longer existed to them.

She could remember trying to cling onto her father's leg, begging for forgiveness and understanding, and him kicking her off like some diseased jackal. His face twisted in a look of uttermost disgust. She'd cried and wept, and begged. Why couldn't they understand and give her their blessings? They were young once. Why couldn't they understand?

Her eldest brother, Tarin, had been the one that'd thrown her out of the house (on their father's command). She had landed outside the house with a loud cry of pain. At the time she had no idea that it was her ankle that had taken the blunt of the fall.

It was mid-afternoon and citizens and residents were traveling in and out of their homes. There were so many people there, that no one could help but not notice the fury and anger in their household. They'd made the issue so public that she'd had to leave her home-kingdom.

She'd bruised her wrist on the impact and had to use her only good hand to push her self a few ways from the door. Her father tossed out some of her clothes and a meager portion of money on the ground near her.

All of her family gathered at the door. She looked through tear-blemished eyes at her family longingly. Her mother and father, her two brothers Tarin and Rushdi. And her three sisters, Mizah, Narissa, and Vashti. All looking at her with sadness, anger, pity, and…hate.

She was helpless and unwanted, just because she dared to do something unthinkable to them. To love someone not in her social class. A class act thief. A criminal of a sort.

At that moment, she had turned all that sorrow into rash anger and resentment. She vowed to them she'd never come back and that she'd never loved them. She felt so betrayed. At that time, all she had was her lover. He was her vigilant hero, and protector. He was much older than herself. She was 18 when she'd left, and he was 34 but he was providing; for a time.

She wished she'd heeded her parents now.

It was a grievious time, and it'd stricken her with a harsh reality. She would not die in the comfort of her loved ones, she would die in the streets and waste away like gutter-trash; leaving her children to the cruel world and molested evils of the night.

She looked around the abandoned hovel she'd found on the outskirts of the city. Out through the gapping hole that looked out towards the palace. The riches and treasures the sultan and sultana obtained would never belong to her little precious ones, especially after her death. The best she could do for them was find them a shelter and adoptive-parent.

She shut her eyes tightly and tried to push the thoughts away. Outside the rain poured down in heavy sheets and tossed the ragged curtains covering the gapping hole back and forth. Letting a few drops of water spew here and there.

Why was she in this predicament? Why did her children and she have to suffer so?

Her eyes opened wide. Cassim.

Just his name brought back old memories of resentment, anger…betrayal that use to burn at her.

Cassim never stuck around. Not even a month after Aladdin was born. He didn't even stop on his few visits anymore. She'd given her whole life to him and he'd left on some wild treasure-crazed adventure with a caravan of thieves.

He wasn't even there for his only children's deliveries. At least, she tried to make herself believe she was the only woman to bare his children (sometimes it was her own conscious that whispered the evil idea of adultery; that that'd been the reason for why Cassim left).

She would always try to convince herself that he was out doing the best for them. Cassim had promised that he'd find a good job and stop his thievery, and come home with plenty of money and food for his family. But it seemed the more he showed (or for those few frequent days he showed, before he stopped coming all together), the more he took from them than provided for them.

Always having to take refuge in her home from the guards of Agrabah, or some distant bounty hunter. She'd always had to provide for him. Sure he assured her that it was only a matter of time before he'd take them out of this. But as she'd come to realize with her family and now Cassim, that words were empty and anything that could be said or done could be taken back just as quickly.

She hoped he was dead. She prayed for it every night, wishing that somehow and somewhere he was suffering as much as she had. She had no family anymore, and if she could even call them friends, was few. And her children were suffering.

She bit her lip, drawing the slightest bit of blood.

Summoning up some of her last strength, she gathered the little previsions they'd need for tonight.

Time was of the essence, and she didn't have much. She had no more pride to forfeit and her kids depended upon her. Not her worn vanity or self-pity. It was well past do for any thoughts like that.

A few of the good blankets they had left to keep them worn, some dried dates she kept stored up, four shekels in case the worst, and the last of her worldly possessions: a golden locket her mother had given her for her upcoming majority, and the blade Cassim had given her. It was supposedly an heirloom from his father, but she couldn't be for certain. Cassim and his father never did get along.

Come to think of it, she'd never considered asking Cassim's father for help. The last time she'd seen him, he'd been over-joyed with the prospect of Cassim marrying off to a wealthy girl ( that was before she'd broken the news to her parents).

Cassim's father, old Ali Babwa, was a self-righteous man. He was not poor, nor was he rich, but he held himself with great esteemed stature that would rival any King or Sultan. He owned one of the richest and most well breed horses on that side of the Nile, and was obviously looking for his only child to furnish even greater things.

Unfortunately, Cassim wasn't what his father wanted him to be. All of his yelling and scolding didn't help the fact that Cassim was headed for the wrong path, which in turn led her down the wrong path. But surely, this man harbored enough love in his heart to accept her children and herself into his home; assuming he was still alive (he was an older gentleman when she met him, and obviously had Cassim at a late age). They were his only living heirs and continuation of his blood.

And it wasn't as if they needed very much, and she could work as a servant there too, if need be.

She tucked the blankets over excitedly; new found hope pumping through her veins excitedly. They actually had a chance, and through the person she last expected to come of any help to her…her _wonderfully_ predictable Cassim. If only she'd have come to that idea a long time ago. All that suffering could have a happier ending for her kids and even herself.

She walked back over to the bed that her sleeping children lied in. Resting peacefully beside each other. They were such angels when they slept, it was almost an unreal contrast to how lively and restless they were during the day.

Come to think of it, she was surprised Aladdin hadn't woken in the middle of the night for something to drink. He had been a big eater since the day he was born.

Setting down the stuff on the edge of the bed, she bent down and gentle shook Adara's shoulder, " Adara…Adara, wake up."

Adara's eyes fluttered softly before, opening up wide, "Hhmm. What's the matter?"

"Nothing Adara, mommy's just taking you guys to a place to stay for awhile."

Adara rubbing the sleep from her eyes answered abruptly with the slightest bit of sarcassim, "Again."

"Yes, again, and what did mommy tell you about sarcassim and little girls?"

Adara pursed her lips out of child frustration, "Not to."

Smiling, she added, " Not to what, Adara?"

Adara sighed, "Not to be sarcasic, cause it not nice for little girls to be sarcassic."

She hugged her, "That's my girl." Adara giggled and playfully fought her off.

"Mommy it's raining outside."

"Yes, it is," she slowly picked up her sleeping son and rested him against her bossim, "that's why were leaving tonight."

"Why? You hate the rain."

Not being able to lie to her daughter or come up with a reasonable excuse that wouldn't include explaining her intuition about things she replied, "Yes I do, now Adara, mommy needs you to listen and do everything she tells you too, okay."

Adara nodded, not really grasping the whole event of moving that night, or more truthfully, too tired and sleepy to question her mother.

"Alright, now wrap yourself in your blanket and use your other hand to hold onto mine."

Adara did as told, following her mommy down the broken staircase.

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I know, this chapter was a little lengthy, but I promise it's worth it. For those who stuck around to read thankyou and I promise it'll be worth it. All the information above will def. make more sense later on…malicious grin 


	4. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters you are familiar with. And sorry for the ooc'ness! I promise all the characters will start to act like themselves once the main plot of the story unfolds, and I figure out some of the possible relationships between characters. I'm still battling between a Aladdin/Jasmine or a Mozenrath/Aladdin, or maybe...nah! I'll just have to see if what everyone thinks first ;-)

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Chp.3

Traveling to Agrabah took less of an effort than Mozenrath had initially thought. Instead of the sand storms he'd suspected, Destain and he passed easily through normal weather. At least, that was the only thing off his list of expectations that was proven wrong.

Agrabah was just as grand and renown as the ancient scrolls had written. Large markets, rich and prosperous citizens (for the most half), and a well regulated militia (from what he could tell by the guards posted outside of the walls entering into the city). This certainly would be a city worth the trouble of conquering once he was out of Destain's rule. That is if, Destain hadn't already come to the same conclusion as he had.

The horse drawn carriage they were riding in came to a halt outside the Palace doors. Destain, who was seated adjacent to Mozenrath, was always sure to make an entrance. Not so much as to draw attention. More along the lines of presenting himself in only the most dignified of royal grandeur.

Mozenrath could understand politics and the-such of royal manner, but one thing he'd never truly gotten (or hadn't tried to give much in depth thought to) was the color of arms. Mozenrath was decked head to toe in the black and blue colors representing the Lands of the Black Sand.

It wasn't that he detested the specific arrangement of colors; it was just he hated having to wear almost the same exact outfit Destain was wearing. It was offensively distasteful and he'd barely tolerated it in Morbia.

Mirage had not only enjoyed tormenting unsuspecting mortals, but also almost thrived on the torment of her son. And dressing him in some of the most ridiculous attire possible was just another way to prove she had the power to do as she pleased. Many a times he could recount wearing pink to council meetings 'in place' of his mother. She'd insisted that her son would some day take her place, and would rightly learn more from participating in Maria's affairs.

Of course, he'd had to go through with the preposterous costumes at the time. Practice of hiding the disdain, anger, and out right embarrassment from the snooty beaurocrats and dignitaries had proven its self-beneficial. Well, to a degree? He could deal with any stressful situation with out stumbling over himself; like most of his royal peers.

At least in most instances.

He hated to say…well think…it, but he was falling into the stereotype of a 'rebel' prince.

Mozenrath was so caught up in his musings, that he hadn't recognized Destain talking to him as he was exiting the carriage. If he would have cared, he'd have defiantly picked up on the agitation in Destain's voice.

"Are you going to sit there all day Mozenrath?"

Destain was already outside, attending to his servants carrying the complementary gifts one ruler would give to another when visiting their country. "Well?"

Mozenrath stepped out in a nonchalant manner, " No…Lord Destain."

Before Mozenrath could utter another laced offense, Destain jerked his arm roughly, pulling him close enough so only he could hear, "Now listen here, pet. The Sultan and the other envoys here are not very inquisitive to the affairs concerning my kingdom, which leaves them at a disposition of not knowing who you are young Mozenrath. And believe you me if they knew you where the son of Mirage, you'd be guillotined at the spot. And we wouldn't want that indignant head of yours displaced from where it lies now would we? So this, my dear Mozenrath, puts you in a grave situation."

Mozenrath couldn't tell which irritated him more: Destain's hot breath in his face, the fact Destain was in complete control of him, or his mother's inconsideration of her affairs throughout the seven deserts.

Not passing up the chance to test his limits with Destain, he whispered the only response that came to his head. "Well, what do you suppose I could do about this situation? It's not as if I can erase the memories and atrocities my mother has committed against them."

"Which was the point I'm coming too, if you'd have been so patient," Destain released his arm, fixing his doublet1 as he made his way further into the gate, "You will pose as my _heir_, that way you stay safe and I keep my promise to Mirage."

Mozenrath scoffed inwardly. Great. He was leverage now. Did he honestly need to be reminded that he was in the 'gracious' care of Destain?

Destain preceded towards the palace steps, golden cane in tow, "I trust you are able to keep your bearings about you as all good princelings should?"

Mozenrath forced a grin the best he could, " Of course…father. It would be a disgrace if I was to slander your name with my own erring."

"Good then." Destain turned to face one of the guards, "Inform your heralds with all due respect, that the lord and prince of the Black Sands have arrived."

The Guard nodded his head slightly, "Right away your highness."

"Oh…a little token of my _appreciation_." Destain flipped the guard a coin.

"A gold dinari," the guard bowed lower, "Thank you, your majesty. I'll be about your request right away. Rasoul!" The guard motioned for one of the guards standing on the opposite side of the entrance.

"Yes captain."

"Take over my post for me."

"Yes captain." The guard, Rasoul, bowed again in courteousy.

'Simpletons.' Mozenrath couldn't theorize why Destain was trying to establish himself as the gracious dignitary, when his reputation certainly demonstrated he wasn't. But, 'Then again, no one knew of the affairs that happen in The Black Sands.'

……………………………….

The Royal Throne Room of Agrabah was buzzing with the noise of garrulous chancellors, gossiping dignitaries, and other arrangements of royal conversation from across the seven deserts. The counselors of Egypt, the vizier of Getzistan and his royal entourage, and numerous others, all their to discuss the current affairs with trade routes, treaties, and such.

And of course, while the Sultan was unavailable at the moment, the appointed people left in charge was the Royal Vizier, Jafar and the Princess of Agrabah, Jasmine.

Jafar placed a kiss on both cheeks of the vizier of Getzistan, "Wonderful to see you again and in such great health."

"Likewise yourself, Jafar."

Jafar smiled widely, "But of course. The attendant here will show you to your quarters. I trust that they'll be quite fitting."

"Aren't they always."

The two shared mock laughter before the vizier, followed by her own company, went on to their destinations.

The Princess sauntered over in Jafar's vicinity, nodding towards officials on her way. Determination forced in each of her steps. She was the archetype of perfection in every form of her being. The heiress of Agrabah and a beauty sought for in every nation. Not to mention the stubborn attitude that went along with her family's name.

"You do know Getzistan is known for their pilfering. You didn't station them in a room…"

Jafar cut Princess Jasmine off, "Yes your highness. I'm just as informed as you about them and took the necessary precautions. You fret entirely too much." He gave the princess a semi smile.

Princess Jasmine curtsied politely to an official before replying." I always do. I do not trust a lot of the emissaries here for good reason."

"And what reason is that"

There conversation was cut off again with the arrival of another person of nobility's entrance, "…Ah, good to see you Lord Wazir. I see young lord Mamoud is growing up exceedingly."

Princess Jasmine declined her head just slightly in their direction, waiting until they were a good distance away before continuing the conversation, "You know those reasons as well as I do. Most of these people here are power hungry bureaucrats looking towards Agrabah as a way to finance their reputation further."

"I don't know what you mean."

"You know exactly what I mean Jafar. And as our Vizier it would be common knowledge to you that Agrabah is a thriving empire and just about every Dominion present here would love to add it to its providence of conquered countries."

Jafar stopped and placed a hand on the Princess's shoulder trying to fake endearment as humanly possible, "As your vizier, I am very well-informed of all things concerning this kingdom and it's surrounding nations, or have you forgotten Princess? And quite necessarily I do not think you should concern your pretty little head over it. It's not as if you'll be taking over after your father."

"Is that so?" Jasmine crossed her arms, and cocked her head awaiting a logical explanation.

"Well of course. You see one of these lucky princes or possible kings you'll have to choose to wed and they will rule over Agrabah."

He waited for a response and not receiving one continued. "Leave it to the men to decide the fate of Agrabah, Princess. It is not a woman's place to worry in monarchies."

Jafar then left the Princess to her brooding, heading over to his designated seat.

How he loved to toy with the Princess. It was always a treat to see her fume over her position in the imperial society, or her arguing with the counselors over some medial trifle regarding the Palace. Truly he did admire her certain spark and valor; it made her unique among the countless of other pampered royal princes and princesses he'd served in other countries.

It was quite amusing. In fact it was so amusing, he'd figured it'd be even far more entertaining to see her countenance when he would become ruler over Agrabah with the oh-so-inconvenient death of her father. It always brought a grin to his face thinking about conquering Agrabah. And more importantly kept him sane priority wise.

Among all the other kingdoms he'd served, this one was the most befitting. He spent most of his years working his way up from court sorcerer and Wiseman to trusted vizier. Too bad that nitwit of a Sultan couldn't see past his crooked veneer he'd built up, or he would have never had a fighting chance.

The only real threat he had of present was the Princess. Not that she was a major threat, just one he needed to settle with before it could grow sporadically out of control and from his favor.

The only one Jafar called blatantly recall as a true, without a doubt jeopardy was the Queen of Agrabah. She had never trusted him, and ironically the Princess inherited this trait from her mother. Luckily for him, the queen had contracted tuberculosis after her pregnancy with Jasmine. It was such a common disease in Agrabah at the time and she'd died when the princess was five or so.

It'd come as a great relief, considering the fact that she was already hinting to the Sultan of her distrust towards him. The Sultan would have gladly gotten rid of him to please his spouse's worries. The man had been infatuated with her from the beginning, and anything that hurt or threatened his wife's life or happiness would have been dealt with immediately. The only problem now was the eruditely (a/n: well learned in books and politics) defiant Princess the Queen had left behind.

Jafar cursed his ill-found luck! Why couldn't she contract tuberculosis as well, or more rightly, why couldn't that confounded Sultan raise his daughters like all the other royals raised theirs. If she were to rule after her father, he'd be the first vizier after 200 years of peace to be sent to the executioner's block.

Jafar jolted as one of the palace heralds shouted loudly, "The Lord and Prince of The Black Sand."

* * *

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Samirah The Entertainess

1. a decorative jacket worn over attire


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